


I Wish I Could Give You a Mirror (So You Can See What I See)

by nickelsandcoats



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brief mention of suicide ideation, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, doctor who - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-17
Updated: 2011-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-27 11:25:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickelsandcoats/pseuds/nickelsandcoats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock and John watch <i>Doctor Who</i> and things hit a little too close to home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Wish I Could Give You a Mirror (So You Can See What I See)

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://annjej76.livejournal.com/profile)[**annjej76**](http://annjej76.livejournal.com/)'s prompt [here](http://nickelsandcoats.livejournal.com/122267.html) at my shuffle meme post. She asked for #21, which was “Amy’s Theme” from the _Doctor Who, Series Five_ soundtrack by Murray Gold.
> 
>   
>  This story makes a bit more sense if you've seen the DW episode "The Girl Who Waited," but no prior knowledge of it is necessary. If you want to read a transcript of the episode, one can be found [here](http://jpgr.livejournal.com/127700.html).

  
There was a pathetic whimper from the huddle of blankets. “’S cooooold.”

John grumbled as he shivered and slithered out from under the covers, pushing off Sherlock’s hand as it swiped at him.

“John, come back it’s cold.”

“I heard you the first time,” John snapped. “And it’s cold because someone forgot that blowing every fuse for the heater in the box and not ensuring that there are spares means we have no heat until the shops open tomorrow. For God’s sake, Sherlock, couldn’t you have waited until Boxing Day to conduct your experiment?”

John looked back over his shoulder and saw that only an inch of Sherlock’s curls were visible over the edge of the blankets. Even the curls looked guilty. He sighed gustily and climbed back into bed. “Sorry,” John murmured, pressing a kiss onto Sherlock’s lips.

“No, it’s my fault. I should have anticipated that doing that would have blown the fuse.”

“It’s fine, love. We’ve plenty of blankets and the fireplace. It’s only one day.”

“Will you stay here a bit?”

“I should go build the fire.”

“Stay. Please.”

There was a catch in Sherlock’s voice that made any protest die before John could even give it voice. “I’ll stay.” He pulled Sherlock in and held him close, nestling his chin on top of the messy curls.

  


Three hours later, they finally uncurled from under the blankets. John stretched and shivered as his feet touched the icy floor. “I’ll start the fire and make tea,” he said as he fumbled on his slippers and dressing gown. Sherlock sat up, drawing the blanket over his shoulders.

“I’ll be raiding your jumper stash. Surely you have something close to my size. Perhaps the green one Harry gave you last year.”

“Mmmm. That one might be the closest. I’ll be back.”

Ten minutes later, John returned, shivering, with a tray in his hands. He sat it on the bedside table and bit his lip as he looked at Sherlock, who was now sporting a blanket, jeans, and John’s green jumper (which was too short in the arm and broad in the shoulder). The tip of his nose was pink from the cold. One hand snuck out from under the blanket and snagged a cup of tea, barely pausing to blow across it to cool it before taking a deep sip.

John picked up his own mug and carefully sat down on the bed, tucking his dressing gown in closely. “When you’re done with that, let’s go out in the sitting room. The fire will have warmed it up a bit.”

Sherlock sniffed and buried himself deeper into the blankets.

“I’ll put on _Doctor Who_ ,” John wheedled, “you can point out all the fallacies and plot holes you like and I won’t mind.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Sherlock flung back the blankets and was down the hall in a flash. John shook his head and followed at a more sedate pace, crossing over to the telly and flicking it on as he pulled out the DVD case and put the disc in the player. Sherlock was squashed into his armchair, and when John turned back to face him, the detective patted the minuscule empty space next to him with a smile.

John rolled his eyes good-naturedly, snagged the remote, grabbed a blanket from the back of the sofa, and then settled himself down next to Sherlock, pushing at his partner’s irritatingly long legs until there was enough room for him. Once he was settled, Sherlock took one corner of the blanket and draped it carefully over them before resting his head against John’s shoulder with a sigh. John pressed play, and let his smile tug at the corners of his mouth. He loved _Doctor Who_ , and after all his grumbling about missing so many episodes due to cases, Sherlock had bought him the DVD set for Christmas. Then Sherlock made the mistake of saying he’d never watched the show before (and that was true: the few times John had caught an episode when it aired was when Sherlock was out) and so John set about educating him. Watching the first few episodes had been excruciating as Sherlock deduced the ending before the theme tune even started playing and then spent the rest of the episode loudly pointing out all of the flaws he perceived there to be.

Sure enough, less than two minutes in, Sherlock cried, “Why wouldn’t you tell her which button you pushed? There are two buttons, not one!” John bit back a giggle as Sherlock threw his hand up in exasperation. “Really, John, this is just terrible writing. What a convenient plot device.”

As the theme song started, John asked. “So what’s going to happen in this one?”

“It’s simple, really. Amy will get trapped in that faster timestream and the Doctor and Rory will have to figure out how to save her, but she’ll age faster than they think and end up turning old and bitter because she wasn’t rescued.”

They watched in silence as the episode unfolded, Sherlock’s head bobbing gently with each of Jon’s breaths. Sherlock’s own breaths grew a little uneven at times, especially once Rory found Amy, aged and changed by time almost beyond recognition. Like John had been, when Sherlock returned from his three-year absence.

When Amy laughed for the first time in 36 years, Sherlock’s breath caught and he made an almost inaudible pained sound. John had said nearly the same thing the first time he laughed after Sherlock’s return. The look of confusion, wonder, and then joy that had followed that realisation had nearly undone Sherlock then; remembering it now made him cling tighter to John, clenching his fingers tightly into John’s jumper.

John, ever perceptive, merely hugged Sherlock a little closer, rubbing his thumb over Sherlock’s hip. When Rory found the long-gone sign from Amy, it was John’s turn to have his heart stutter in his chest for a moment. If only Sherlock had left him some kind of a sign that he was alive, that there was nothing to fear, that he should wait and all would be well. But he hadn’t, and John had been left to wait alone for three long years, fighting back the urge to hasten the end, to see Sherlock sooner rather than later in whatever life there was after death.

Sherlock grew quieter and quieter as the episode concluded. When Amy told Rory she was giving his Amy all of the days she couldn’t have, John felt a splash of wetness soak through his jumper and stroked Sherlock’s hair to soothe him. He cleared his own throat, hastily brushing away the tears that threatened to spill from his own eyes. This story had hit far too close to home. This could so easily have been him and Sherlock, separated for three years, Sherlock all but begging John to forgive him, saying that he would give John all of the days he could and more just to be near him again. As the credits rolled. John stabbed the power button and shifted so he could finally look at Sherlock, who immediately buried his face into John’s neck and took several deep breaths, dampening the neck of his jumper.

“Hey,” John said softly. “Look at me?”

“That could have been us, John. It was us. I left you and you waited for me, even though you never knew I was coming back.You waited, John. No one else would have waited for me.”

John swallowed thickly and let out his breath in a shaky sigh. “I know, love. But I nearly…”

Sherlock pulled back and peered at John. His eyes scanned quickly over John’s face, reading the things John still, months after he’d returned, could not admit out loud. Sherlock’s face crumpled slightly as he understood what John had started to say. “You wouldn’t have. John, tell me you wouldn’t have.”

“I nearly didn’t wait for you. There was no sign, no nothing that you were alive. You and Mycroft did your jobs well.” He laughed bitterly. “I would sit here at night and wonder which way would be the easiest, least messy. Then I wondered if I shouldn’t go somewhere else, not leave a mess for Mrs. Hudson. And then I wondered ‘What if he’s still alive? What if I leave and he’s left waiting?’ So I stayed and I waited and I am so glad I did.”

“John—I….I don’t deserve you. I’m not worth this. I’m not.”

“Sherlock,” John said firmly, shifting so he and Sherlock were eye to eye, “I do not regret a single instant of those three years. I would wait ten times that for you. I am glad I waited, and I’m not sorry that I did. It was worth it, in the end.”

Sherlock was speechless, his throat working as he swallowed back several replies before he finally whispered, “I’m sorry I made you wait, but there are no words to express how glad I am that you did.”

“Oh, Sherlock, I wish I could make you see that I will always wait for you. How can you not know that you are worth waiting for?”

Sherlock’s gaze softened and blurred as he bowed his head until his forehead was pressed into John’s chest. John’s arms came up around his narrow shoulders and held him there, rocking gently back and forth as he stared into the fire.

  
—Fin—


End file.
